by Mary Campisi
So, he wasn’t going to press her to model for him or make sexy comments about the red gown? No jokes, do you need help with the zipper, or how about I button that for you? Nothing but serious-nice-guy stuff? Hmm. “Thanks.” Charlotte watched him leave, then turned to the pile of designer clothes on the bed. She fingered a plum cashmere sweater dress, traced the detail on the sleeves. If Tate started showing her his considerate, attentive side, that would be a lot more dangerous than the teasing, sarcastic one women called irresistible. One day, she’d figure out the real man behind the facade, but right now she had a bed covered with designer clothes waiting for her.
Forty-five minutes later, Charlotte admitted she really did like wearing clothes that glided over her skin and made her feel good, and it wouldn’t take much to get used to them—if she didn’t have to consider the cost, which, of course, she would. Dang, wasn’t it always about money? Of course, not for those who had it, but for the ones who struggled to stay off the debt collector’s list—ahem—it could be a challenge. But she was doing better and now that she had money coming in, she wouldn’t have to use her credit cards to get through the month or ask Rogan for another loan. She shimmied into the last item, the red gown with a gazillion sequins, padded to the full-length mirror on the closet door. Oh, goodness, talk about shrink-wrapped! The material hugged every curve and made her wish she hadn’t eaten an extra helping of chicken pot pie tonight. She ran a hand from her breasts to her thighs, turned sideways, sucked in her belly, studied her butt. Maybe she should have ditched the pot pie and opted for carrots and celery sticks. Was this even acceptable to wear in public? Her gaze narrowed on the cleavage popping from the top of the dress. Umm, no, not acceptable. And she wouldn’t be able to sit, let alone eat, even if it was carrot and celery sticks. One more look in the mirror, and a sad sigh. She’d really wanted this dress, but unless she found a way to shave off two inches and ten pounds, it wasn’t happening.
“Charlotte? How are you making out?”
Tate’s voice reached her from the hallway. “I’ve got a pile of maybes and a few definites.”
“Astrid made an apple crisp.” Pause. “I thought we’d try it out when you’re finished.”
Apple crisp? “You remembered I love apple crisp?” That night in Chicago, she’d told him her two favorite desserts were chocolate lava cake and apple crisp. They’d ordered the chocolate lava cake and proceeded to eat it in bed, naked, with one spoon and a lot of kissing in between.
Another pause, this one longer than the last. “I did. You’ve got to taste it. Can I start a pot of coffee, or maybe get you a glass of wine?”
So caring and gentle, and what a memory. Charlotte blinked hard as the truth hit her. If Tate remembered something as insignificant as her preference for apple crisp, then he remembered everything that happened that night in Chicago. Every. Little. Thing. She sucked in a deep breath, clasped her hands over her belly. That night had meant a lot more than he’d let on, even if it had taken him five months to admit it. What if he really did care about her? What then?
“Charlotte?”
She tugged at the gown, pulled it over her head, and placed it on the pile of “no-thank-you’s”. The last thing she needed right now was a double dose of sweetness from an apple crisp and Tate Alexander to cloud her judgment. Who could tell what she’d do with a sugar overload and the man’s mesmerizing smile? Charlotte pulled on her jeans and sweater, ran a hand through her hair, and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She gathered her new wardrobe, made her way to the door, and opened it.
Tate stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, gaze narrowed on her. “You sure you don’t want to stay for a snack?”
He sounded so pitiful, she almost changed her mind. Was it really that important that she stay? Maybe she could have a small piece…and sit across the table from him…talk about the weather…anything that didn’t imply couple or intimate. Charlotte opened her mouth to tell him she’d changed her mind and would have that apple crisp when he smiled at her and shrugged.
“Another time then. Let me help you take these to your car.”
And just like that, the real Tate Alexander disappeared behind a smile and a shrug.
Chapter 8
Oliver Donovan was not a man prone to giving opinions unless they were solicited, and even then, he hesitated. An opinion was just that: someone else’s thoughts on how things looked or should be. The longer he was alive, the more he realized how little he did know, and how nobody had a right to tell anyone else how to live. What was right or wrong? What worked for one person wouldn’t necessarily work for another. Breathe the air, look around, enjoy the moment. That was his motto, had always been his motto, even when he was in the band and rock-’n’-rolled all night doing things he’d rather not remember. Those days were long gone, replaced with a middle-aged man who knew better than to tell anybody what to do or how to do it. Like he said, breathe the air, look around, enjoy the moment.
Life was good.
Too many people got involved in other people’s business, tried to force their opinions on somebody else. The Alexanders, for instance. Most of the town, including Oliver’s own family, thought they were no good sons-of-a-gun who didn’t deserve respect or an objective viewpoint. His own sister, who was an Alexander by marriage, felt the same way. Camille cursed her husband and her brother-in-law, and yet she did nothing to change that. The only Alexander she truly cared about other than her own children was Tate. He’s a good boy, she told him. He and Charlotte have their eye on each other, and they just need a little help to prod them along. Didn’t you see them at the wedding? All that sizzle.
Yeah, he’d seen them all right. Tate’s I’m-too-cool attitude, Charlotte’s scowls, the furtive glances when one didn’t know the other was watching. They had a thing for each other, no doubt about it. Question was, had they already acted on that thing, or were they about to act on it? Rogan wouldn’t like the thought of it, and there’d probably be a fallout, maybe another attempt at a punch in the nose, and this time, he might actually break the guy’s nose.
But to what end? Sure, Charlotte said she had a boyfriend… Jason? A guy nobody had ever heard of, who mysteriously could not make a wedding, and now might or might not head to Reunion Gap to see his girlfriend? Oliver had been involved in enough games to know when the gaming had started. If he were a betting man—and those days were long gone—he’d say Charlotte had created a fictitious Jason to protect herself from Tate Alexander, the guy who really owned her heart.
Very interesting.
He stared out over the gray skies of the October afternoon. There was chili on the stove and cornbread in the oven. The perfect fall menu. Charlotte sat beside him, sipping green tea, and munching on a double fudge brownie. She’d been unusually quiet since she arrived, asking him about his music, his customers, her mother. Polite talk, the perfect lead-in to whatever she really wanted to talk about. He could tell there was something else on her mind, and if he sat still long enough, she’d get around to it. All he had to do was provide the background, and eventually, she’d tell him why she’d really come. “So, I hear you’re working at HA Properties. Filing, is it?”
She let out a laugh. “I’m not actually an office-type girl. Apparently, there’s a whole art to filing. Did you know it’s all alphabetized and filed according to client and date? And you’ve got to make sure things match up or it’s considered an incomplete file?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been near a file, other than the ones your aunt used to leave in the bathroom with her nail polish.”
Another laugh. “Exactly. It’s not as boring as I thought it would be. It’s like a puzzle, and if you think of it that way, it’s not bad. Plus, it’s a way to make money, and right now there aren’t a lot of choices in town.”
Oliver tapped a hand against his chair in the rhythm of an old song. “I hear Mrs. Jankovski is looking for a caregiver. No interest there, huh?” The eighty-seven-year-old woman lived on her
own and wanted a companion for grocery shopping, letter writing, cleaning, and overall do-what-I-tell-you-and-don’t-argue considerations. She couldn’t keep caregivers for longer than six weeks at a time, no matter how much she was willing to pay.
“No, thank you. I’ve heard all about that woman. Mom said she’s worse than she used to be, definitely not worth the money or the aggravation.”
Now they were getting somewhere. His niece wasn’t desperate enough to work for Mrs. Jankovski. Charlotte seemed to like the filing, and maybe there was something else she liked about the place, too, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Glad to hear the job’s going well. Boss is okay, too?” This was the part that would give him an idea as to where this whole conversation was headed.
She shrugged, looked away. “Actually, yes. Better than I thought.”
Ah, the looking-away part told its own tale. Oliver nodded. “Good to know.”
“Everyone’s been very helpful.” She paused, added, “It’s actually refreshing, and surprising.”
She was talking about Tate Alexander. “People will surprise you if you stay open and don’t formulate opinions about them. At least that’s been my case.”
“Are you talking about Jennifer Merrick?” Charlotte raised a brow, said in a soft voice, “Uncle Oliver, you two are causing a lot of chatter. Mom said it’s about more than your friendship with Jennifer’s daughter, Hope. She wondered why you didn’t invite them to Rogan’s wedding.”
How had this conversation become about him and Jennifer? He wasn’t ready to talk about it, not when he didn’t know what, if anything, was going on between him and Jennifer. “She’s a private person and I try to respect that.” But I sure would like to know where we stand. She wouldn’t have told him about her mother and what happened in her hometown if she didn’t trust him, would she? And she sure wouldn’t have asked him to accompany her back there to see her mother if she didn’t want him to go, would she? This relationship business was tough, and he could see why so many people avoided it, or stayed on the perimeter instead of going all in. On the other hand, he’d caught glimpses of what it could be like if you took the risk and jumped in. If Jennifer were willing to give them a chance, he’d be kidding himself to pretend he had to think about it. Heck no; he’d be first in line, lapping up whatever scraps of affection and sharing she’d throw his way.
“So,” Charlotte said, her voice taking on a singsong lilt, “you do care about each other.”
He shrugged, rubbed his jaw. “I care about a lot of people. You, your brothers…”
“Really, Uncle Oliver?” The singsong switched to annoyed. “Are you going to act like I’m still thirteen? According to Aunt Camille and Mom, you and Jennifer Merrick have a thing for each other.” Pause, a huff. “It’s just taking you both time to admit it.”
“Maybe.” That was all he was going to say about it. The last thing he wanted was for Jennifer to get wind of him blabbing about wanting a relationship with her before he told her. Nope, he was keeping his mouth zipped, and if all went well when they visited Jennifer’s mother, maybe he’d work up the courage to talk about it.
“I know it doesn’t matter, but I hope something happens between you two. You deserve to be happy, and while I don’t know much about her, it seems like she does, too.”
“Thanks.” He knew he didn’t deserve somebody like Jennifer Merrick. He was too old for her, too experienced, with too many miles under his belt, not all of them good. But if she wanted to give them a chance, well, he was not going to turn away from it. Second chances didn’t happen every day. And what about Hope? He’d never met anyone like that little girl; a burst of knowledge, intuition, and curiosity that didn’t come in a package people might recognize as such. But Oliver did. “Life doesn’t always come at us like we think it will, but if we’re open to it, real joy can follow.” He placed a hand on her forearm, smiled. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He meant her and Tate Alexander and the unlimited possibilities that went with it.
She nodded. “I’m so afraid.” Pause, a quiet, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
The look on her face said she’d been hurt before, maybe by this man. “People change,” he said. “I’m living proof of that. Caring about somebody and opening up enough to trust them is always a risk. You can get flattened, steamrolled right into the ground, but you can also get lifted up and treated in a way you never thought possible. It could lead to a whole new path of love, commitment, who knows? Maybe even marriage.”
“But how do you get past the fear? And what if you believed all that and you were hurt by this person, and now you don’t know if you can trust him again? Or even if you want to…”
“Well, I guess that’s why you create fictional boyfriends who stand as roadblocks.” He laughed at her shocked expression. “And you tell yourself you’re never going to trust him again because he hurt you, and he’s not worth a second chance. Even if somewhere deep inside your belly, you think he might just change. You don’t like thinking that and you wish you could find someone else who moved you a tenth as much as he does, but the spark, the sizzle? He’s the only one who does that for you, and you know it… So does he.”
“Rogan would be furious if he thought I were even half-interested.” She dragged a hand through her hair, shook her head. “I can hear the lectures now.”
“He’ll have a thought or two on the subject, like any good brother would.” Oliver remembered when Camille announced she was marrying Carter Alexander. All the anger and attempts to reason hadn’t changed a thing; she’d still married the man and regretted it before their first anniversary. But Charlotte’s love interest wasn’t like Camille’s husband. If he were, Oliver would have steered this whole conversation in a different direction, like toward a cliff or a dead end. “Rogan has his hands full with a new wife, and in a few months or so, there’ll be a baby. And then there’s this new house that needs a whole lot of work. Besides, your brother doesn’t have much room to talk. He had to make some tough choices about whether to let go of the pain, or hang onto it, and lose the woman he loved. Trust me, his path was a whole lot rockier than yours.”
“You’re talking about whatever happened between him and Elizabeth, aren’t you?”
“I am, but I’m not the one to tell you. Maybe that new boyfriend of yours will shed some light on the matter, since he was in the thick of it.”
She stared at him like the news surprised her. “He was?”
He could share this tidbit with her. “Sure was. He was a messenger, and that’s what landed him with a punch in the nose. Your aunt was not happy about that one. Poor guy really did think he was protecting your brother, but that’s not how Rogan saw it. I’m not sure Elizabeth will ever be able to look him straight in the eye. Again, Tate was trying to protect your brother. He’s an honorable man, nothing like his father or his grandfather. It must be very difficult to carry that name and those black marks with him. Lots of judgment going on before he ever opens his mouth.”
Charlotte didn’t respond at first, and when she did, it was with a quiet, “I’m not sure he’ll tell me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Eventually, you’ll hear about it from somebody, maybe Elizabeth or even Rogan. And then you can make your own decision about whether you want to give the guy another chance. It’s not for me to say or judge. But you only get one life, Charlotte.” He squeezed her arm, didn’t fight the tears in his eyes. “Make it count.”
“I will. Thank you, Uncle Oliver. I knew you’d be able to open my eyes.”
He nodded. “You can always count on me, no matter what. And remember, if the nights grow long, and your heart grows sad, there is somebody who can carry you through and give you hope.” He whistled twice, and seconds later his bull dog scampered in. “Maybelline might be a four-legged best friend, but she’s true. Dogs will get you through the worst times. Don’t forget that.”
The newlyweds had returned from their honeymoon to New England, happier, more in
love, if that were possible. How could that be possible? Charlotte studied them from across the dinner table as they shared smiles, a touch on the shoulder, a glance. Handholding, whispers, even a kiss or two. In public? She’d never seen her brother hold a woman’s hand in front of the family, but she was pretty sure he’d just placed his hand on his wife’s belly. That’s what a couple in love looked like who were expecting a baby. Charlotte leaned back in her chair, let out a soft sigh. It had taken a long time, but her brother had finally found someone to erase his grouchiness and relax his by-the-book attitudes.
Thank goodness for that.
Rogan had always been the one to guide her and Luke, steer them along the path he thought they should take—usually very straight and exceedingly narrow. Of course, they didn’t listen, and of course, he stuck around to lecture them on their failings. He hadn’t meant to act superior or as if he knew everything, but the truth was, he did know a lot, and his judgment was better than theirs. Charlotte and Luke were impulsive by nature, quick to anger and accusations, and that caused them a lot of grief and heaps of misunderstanding.
Not Rogan. He made the right choice at the right time, for the right reason. Except when he’d gone off track and hooked up with that horrible fiancée who only wanted the penthouse and the parties. The best thing that ever happened to him was coming home to Reunion Gap and getting dumped by the witchy fiancée. And meeting Elizabeth. Charlotte still didn’t have the details on what happened between those two, but one day, she intended to find out, though it might be Tate Alexander and not her brother who did the telling.
The man drifted through her thoughts, settled in her brain. Oh, who was she kidding? The darn guy lived there, and he’d been occupying a lot more than that since her conversation with Uncle Oliver yesterday. So, her uncle had figured out she and Tate had a thing for each other? What would he say if he knew they’d acted on that thing? She gulped her wine, fanned herself. Knowing him, he wouldn’t be shocked or judgmental, but he would tell her to be honest with herself and her man about what it all meant. And Rogan? She glanced across the table, caught him watching her.